


lightning strikes the mountain

by mikkal



Series: at least I had the strength to fight [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Noctis, Hurt/Comfort, Serious Injuries, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Honestly, it all comes down to a few things: too many enemies, Ignis and Gladio hurt, Noct wavering towards stasis, and Prompto being the only one who can throw that flask that will save their necks.(hurt!noct week prompt day four: friendly fire.)





	lightning strikes the mountain

**Author's Note:**

> This went through several versions. The first version was so, so different and much, much longer. Maybe one day I'll write it. (The second version died a fiery death.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Two dropships. Four dozen MT Swordsmen, six MT Riflemen.

Noctis has been teetering on the edge of stasis for too long now, his defenses weak and his sword swings sloppy. He grits his teeth and fights through it, though, stabbing another one right in its throat, slamming it down into the ground. Taking the moment to catch his breath, he sits on the MT’s chest, heels rocking back, and takes stock of the battlefield.

Ignis has his twin daggers in hand, alight with that fire spell he learned and perfected when they were all but teens. It looks like he has eight downed MTs on his score sheet. Gladio is covering his back, broad sword in hand, grinning madly as he takes down his tenth MT. Prompto found a rock tall enough to give him a good vantage point and he’s taking potshots, struggling with the chaos of a fight and trying to aim friend from foe. But, hey, he’s got six MTs down, so he’s not struggling that much.

It probably doesn’t help that Noctis keeps bouncing around the field with his warp strikes. Well, he won’t have to worry about it for a little bit, he’s too drained for another warp and there’s no good warp points to gain his energy back up. So, he’s stuck with launching himself at the closest MT. He’s struck down at least eleven of them, feeling a bit of smug pride at beating Gladio—until his Shield takes down two more with one friggin’ swing.

They’re all lagging. Ignis has a bloody, oozing slice on his chest and bullet graze in his side, one of Gladio’s shoulders is grotesquely out of socket, and Prompto’s arms are trembling as he takes aim, his face ashen grey.

And there’s still eleven swordsmen left.

Noctis throws up a shield as another hail of gunfire peppers their battlefield. He glares up at the face of the cliff the riflemen are hiding in. Normally, they would be his priority. But considering how many swordsmen there were and the fact that Noctis can’t see the snipers which means he can’t aim, they’ve been stuck dodging sniper shots and whatnot for the last hour.

He’s getting tired, damn it. So tired of this. His back hurts, his hands hurt, his feet hurt. There’s gotta be a better way to end this.

“Ignis!” he calls. “Instructions!”

“Magic!” Ignis shouts back instantly, breathless. “Someone use a flask. Lightning should do the trick.”

Noctis slashes at the chest of another MT. “Will it reach the riflemen?”

Ignis hesitates. “Unclear.”

He swears under his breath, eyeing the cliff face again, then eyes the rock Prompto’s perched on. The gunner is closer to the cliff with a higher ground, if he throws a thundara flask—a two tier lightning spell—then it should...maybe hit the riflemen plus the few swordsmen still straggling around.

Gladio goes down hard with a shout, landing on his bad shoulder. Ignis is at his side instantly. He waves his hand instinctively for a potion, frowning severely when nothing pulls up. They weren’t expecting this fight. In fact, they were on their way to pick up supplies when the dropships appeared. They have no potions and Noctis is in no position to even attempt a small healing spell.

“Blondie!”

Prompto jerks, nearly slipping off the rock. “Who, me?”

The corners of Noctis’ lips twitch up. “Yeah, you. Grab a thundara flask. Throw it.”

His eyes widen. And, yeah, Noctis gets it. They only started magic training—well, what goes for magic training when only Noctis can channel actual spells—the other day, showing Prompto how to recognize which element is which, what the tier level it is. He hasn’t had to use it in a fight yet, the only experience he has is in the calm and silence of a caravan or at a haven.

A MT swipes at Ignis and Gladio. Noctis warp strikes it even though he really shouldn’t. He stands in defense in front of his friends, sword in a shaking two handed grip.

“Get out of here,” he grits out, forcing back the same MT.

“Noct,” Ignis chokes out. He has blood on his face, his hair disheveled. His nose is broken and a new wound on his temple that’s bleeding into his eye. Gladio’s good arm is over his shoulders, one hand gripping the Shield’s wrist and an arm around his waist.

Gladio himself is half-out of it, eyes dazed and half lidded, but he keeps struggling to grab his sword, trying so hard to get back into the fight. To be Noctis’ Shield instead of what is currently the other way around.

“Get out!” Noct orders.

He doesn’t look as Ignis hauls Gladio away, as his advisor and Shield trip and stumble their way back to the Regalia and out of the target zone. Noct feels more than sees Prompto take the flask out of the armory, too busy taking out more MTs as they try to follow Iggy and Gladio.

“Ready!” Prompto calls.

Noctis edges out of the target zone. A MT follows him. He struggles against its sword, his knees quaking and arms straining. He ducks out of the way, it stumbles forward. He twists around, slamming the blade against it’s back, severing it almost in half.

He turns back around, watching in case any MTs get any bright ideas to swarm Prom before he can throw the flask. All their attention is focused on Noct. Unfortunate, because if he leaves the blast zone they’re just going to follow. Completely defeating the purpose of letting Prompto use a flask.

If he just holds off until the last minute then warp out of here, he should be fine. Yeah. Okay, sure.

That’s the thought in his head when Prom reels his arm back to lob the flask. That’s the idea when a glint of metal on the cliff face catches Noctis’ eye. He focuses his attention up to see a single MT realizing what’s going on and taking aim at Prom’s head with its rifle.

“Fire in the hole!”

Panic sparks, then whooshes into a full on blaze in his chest, making it hard to breathe for a second. He hardly takes that second to think it through. Just as Prom throws the flask as hard as he can, Noct is warp striking the rifleman with all of his power before it can pull the trigger.

He catches it on the edge of the ledge it’s on, thrusting forward then yanking his sword back. There’s too much momentum, he realizes too late when suddenly he’s free falling backwards. The wind rushes past his ears, his hair flying in his vision. He’s weightless, floating.

The surrounding world goes quiet for a moment. Like sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool and opening his eyes. And then it all comes rushing back with the crackle of lightning and the smell of ozone, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end and something metallic bursting on the tip of his tongue.

The thundaga—not a thundara—friggin’ thundaga flask explodes when he hits the ground with a bone rattling thud that shakes a few screws loose and seizes his lungs. Lightning grabs onto him, ripping at his clothes, sparking off metal bit. He opens his mouth to scream, only for it to come out soundless that pitches into a painful wheeze. The lightning arcs out, crashing into MT armor and sending them to the ground in heaps. The sounds of metal screeching and scorching is the only thing Noctis hears, downing out the roar of blood in his ears.

Sparks fizzle around him as pain clings to his hand, latching onto his hand and crawling up his arm. Noctis cries out, writhing on the ground despite the grind of his broken bones. His right arm seizes and locks. He curls over it the best he can, sobbing as the fire snakes up to his shoulder to spread across his chest, stealing the little breaths he managed to gain.

Panic grabs hold when he gasps open his mouth and nothing comes, his lungs too tony, his ribs creaking and crackling. His lips move pointlessly, tears springing to his eyes. He can’t—He can’t—Oh Gods. He grabs at the dirt with his good arm, clawing into the rocks, his feet kicking out,t tying to gain leverage to do…to do something.

“—ct!”

He slams his fist on the ground, his glove cushioning whatever damage would come from that. He hits it again and again until his hand suddenly goes limp, his fingers numb and unresponsive. Warm hands touch his face, using his cheeks to pull him on his back. The pain burns like fire. Prompto comes into his sight, a blurry mush of blonde and pale skin.

“Noct!”

Noctis’ mouth opens, panting little wheezing breathes that do nothing. Tears drip from the corners of his eyes, turning the dirt under his head into mud. His arms twitch without his say, his back arching beyond his control. It’s like lightning still courses through his nerves, keeping them alight and dancing.

Prompto presses his fingers on the underside of his jaw and his thumbs on his cheekbones. Noctis’ head lolls in his grip, his cheek muscle spasming and his eyelids twitching. He moans out loud, drool dripping from his lips as his muscles go haywire.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

“I know, Noct. Oh, Astrals. I know. I’m sorry! It felt like a thundara! I didn’t realize you were—I’m so sorry.”

He’s keening, high pitched and pathetic. His whole body spasms and jerks even as Prom tries to keep him still.

Noctis keeps his eyes open, though. Keeps them focused on the blurry picture of Prompto hovering over him. He forces himself to push the pain back, anchoring himself to the here and now with his friend. The edges of his vision darken, black spots appearing and threatening to overcome him.

He fumbles with his good hand—the hand and arm he barely feel but at least it’s the hand and arm that doesn’t feel like heavy lead, like burnt charcoal—and slaps at Prompto’s bicep, trying to grip his arm but his fingers refuse to curl. He sobs, sharp and painful, and slaps his bicep again.

“C’mon. C’mon. We gotta get you to the car,” Prompto says, his voice fuzzy and far away.

Prompto maneuvers them around so Noct’s good arm is over his shoulder. He holds onto Noctis’ belt, hauling him up. Noctis’ legs buckle, him gasping out a scream, and they nearly go down. Prompto grunts and holds him tighter, yanking him up with as much power he can muster.

They’re a mess as they struggle to the Regalia. Noctis drags his feet, hardly able to lift them. He trips over the arm of a MT and goes down hard, dragging Prompto down with him.

The gunner yelps, smothered by his friend’s weight, face-down in the dirt. He groans, flipping to his side to catch sight of Noctis’ face drenched in sweat and tears, eyes squeezed shut, and his lips parted as he sobs in pain. His fingers curl into Prompto’s shirt, tugging on him like Prom could make the pain go away if he just tried.

Nausea swells, Noctis swallows thickly to keep the bile down. All he’s aware of now is Prompto’s warmth, the scratch of his clothes, and overwhelming, unbearable pain. He keeps his eyes closed as Prompto picks up him again and they start walking to the Regalia. He doesn’t dare open his eyes in case the swirl of the world sends him over the edge.

The sounds of sparking metal and the smell of burnt oil are left behind, making way for a breeze and open road. They’re close, Noctis can tell. Even closer than he thought when the Regalia squeaks as someone moves within it, the door clicking open.

“What the hell?” Gladio growls.

Heavier hands than Prompto’s grab at him, suddenly Noctis is leaning against something taller and hotter. He moans at the movement, slumping against Gladio. It pushes at his ribs, bumps against his damaged arm. He gasps, sliding down.

Smaller, deft hands catch him under his arms. Ignis pulls him into the back seat of the Regalia. He cries out when his arm bangs against the seats, doubling over to the side to protect it.

“You guys are okay!” Prompto exclaims. “How?”

Noctis cracks his eyes opens, glancing at his friends through his eyelashes. They still look beat to hell, but Gladio’s shoulder is back in its socket, not as swollen as it should be, and the bleeding of Ignis’ wounds has stopped enough to scab over instead. Ignis is crouched in front of him, one hand hovering over Noct’s right arm and the other palm flat against his forehead. All he feels is leather on his skin, but even that’s far away.

“Barely. There was a potion in the truck,” Gladio is saying, voice low and angry. “We split it. We weren’t expecting Noctis to be hurt. What the hell happened? Don’t you know to get out of the godsdamn blast zone?”

“He wasn’t there!” Prompto shouts back. “He wasn’t there when I threw it, okay? I don’t know what he was doing.”

“Enough,” Ignis says sharply, not taking his eyes off Noctis. Noct tries to smile at him. Tries, being the keyword. He can’t get his face to work. “Enough of this. We have to find a shop. We need potions, Noctis isn’t in any position to heal himself or make anything.”

They fall silent, shimmering with anger and fear and a little bit of shame. Ignis moves his hand from Noct’s forehead to his neck, feeling his too fast pulse and the way he can’t stop shaking. His breathing is off, fast and short, flares of pain with each inhale. It’s like there’s a vice wrapped around his lungs, squeezing them so tightly. Noctis leans into the touch, eyes fluttering close as exhaustion slips over him like water going over his head.

“Gladio, get in the car, help me lay him out.” Ignis’ voice is faint, distant. “Prompto, start the engine. You’re driving.”

Noctis hears Prompto splutter for a second but then obey, the driver side door opening and slamming shut, the beautiful engine purring awake. He loses anything else that might be said when Ignis gently pushes him back to lay out. He groans when his ribs shift, breaths hitching and hitching. Noct can’t catch his breath. It’s been a thing for a while now. But between the walking and the sounds and the pain, he didn’t quite realize how hard it was to breathe.

But now, resting his head on Gladio’s thigh, thick fingers combing through his hair, and the rumble of the Regalia underneath him—It’s all rushing to him. He can’t catch his breath. It pulls through his lips in wheeze. His lungs barely inflating with oxygen, they’re paralyzed and confined in his ribcage in an unnatural way.

He doesn’t have time to think about it anymore before the darkness on the edges of his vision finally takes over and sends him into a void.

* * *

His arm looks dead.

When they finally get to a caravan, Ignis and Gladio work together to wrestle Noctis out of his shirt and jacket, revealing the damage caused.

Originating from the metal ring on his middle finger—a gift, from his first autumn equinox after he turned eighteen and he’d only replaced his summer ring with it just a few days ago—a fulgurite figure traces black lines up his arm, over his shoulder, and across his chest and shoulder blades. His skin is covered in black and blue and purple blotches. His middle finger is practically burned to a crisp. There’s a loop of burns around his neck from the necklace he wears, the one with his the late king’s seal on the tag.

Prompto has to swallow the bile climbing up the back of his throat, covering his mouth with both hands as he sobs. One of the last pieces of his dad Noct has left, ruined. Because Prompto fucked up.

Oh Gods, he fucked up so bad.

“We need curatives,” Ignis says. “Gladio—.”

Gladio doesn’t even answer before he’s out the door. Prompto stays rooted in one spot, eyes wide and teary. Ignis leans over Noctis, touching his cheek gently, murmuring something to their unconscious prince. There’s no response from him, his eyebrows furrowed and tear tracks shining on his face.

His breathing continues to hitch. His chest is all but caved in.

When Prompto….When Prompto threw the flask, he never saw Noct in the way. His heart stopped when he saw his friend falling through the air, he screamed when the lightning grabbed onto him, he took off running when Noct hit the ground and didn’t move for a long moment, only to start convulsing with sparking magic.

Ignis brushes back Noct’s bangs from his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. Noctis twitches into the touch, whimpering.

Prompto collapses into a rickety chair. “What did I do?” he whispers in horror.

“A mistake,” Ignis replies. He flinches, glancing up. The older man’s gaze is sympathetic and gentle. “Nothing more. It happens to the best of us. I promise you that.”

“Look at him!” Prompto exclaims, gesturing to Noct on the bed. “He can barely breathe! What are the chances he’ll be able to use that arm again? And his ring—.” He chokes. “His necklace.”

“Fixable,” Ignis says firmly.

Prompto scoffs. He scrubs his hands over his face, takes a deep breath, and stands up. “What do you need me to do?”

Ignis eyes him for a long moment then sighs. “There’s nothing we can do until Gladio comes back. This isn’t some wound that’s bleeding out. The only thing that will help him now is a potion.”

Of course.

Prompto tugs off Noct’s boots, setting them to the side, and sits on the edge of the bed, hand settled on Noct’s ankle. He watches his friend’s sweat and tear drenched face in silence, following the faint lightning marks that made it onto his chin down to his neck and over his chest. The fulgurite figure fades on his stomach, the dark bruises turning into something lighter.

His hand shakes as he reaches to traces the lines on his stomach, his touch feather light. Noctis moans anyway, flinching. Prompto snatches his hand back quickly, heart thrumming in his chest.

Ignis carefully slides his necklace until he can get to the latch in the chain. He pulls it off, relatches it, and holds it out wordlessly to Prompto. The gunner eyes it warily, glancing from it to Ignis then back again. And doesn’t take it.

“If you feel so guilty,” Ignis says, “then get it fixed. Noctis won’t blame you. He doesn’t have it in him. But you are going to spiral. Put it into something useful, and fix his necklace.”

Prompto takes it slowly, the chain sliding through his fingers and leaving behind soot marks. He thumbs over the face of it, even more soot staining his skin. The seal of Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII still stands in dull relief, but the gold of it is hidden and Prompto has to struggle to make out what use to be even the most obvious details.

His eyes sting. He sniffs and wipes away an escaped tear, then tucks the necklace into the pocket of his vest, carefully buttoning it close. Ignis nods approvingly.

Gladio arrives then with a bag that clinks with glass. He sets it on the bedside table and pulls out two herb based potions. “There’s more,” he says, passing one to Ignis.

Ignis slides his arm under Noct’s head, propping him up. “Break one over his hand,” Ignis says. “It will take more than two.” He massages Noct’s temple with his fingertips. “Noct,” murmurs. “I need you to wake up. Noctis.”

His expression twists, eyelashes flutter. He groans, twitching awake slowly. Noctis’ eyes open just barely, slivers of blue full of pain.

“There we go. You need to drink this.”

Then Ignis presses the edge of the open potion against Noct’s bottom lip, tipping it over into his mouth. Noctis chokes at first, eyes opening wider in surprise, but he manages to swallow the green liquid down. Gladio breaks the other potion over his hand, the magic interacting with the air and the faint shimmer of magic that always seems to cling to Noctis. It seeps into his skin, lighting his veins up with a green glow.

Noctis tenses on the bed, the tendons on his neck stiff in stark relief, his head thrown back and back arching. His good hand claws at the sheets. A whine builds in the back of his throat, pitching high before it’s cut off mid note. He drops back to the bed, panting harshly through his mouth, sweating even more now, but there’s something all around more relaxed about his whole being, his expression no longer pained, his breathing a bit easier.

The fulgurite figure is still there, fainter and more like old scars, but the bruising has healed to a gross mix of greens and yellows with only a few purple marks. His hand is still mostly purple, though, his finger black but no longer...shriveled looking. The marks around his neck is the same of the fulgurite figure, faint but still so obvious.

Ignis feels around his chest, pressing down lightly with a frown. He shakes his head, sitting back. “They’re healed a bit,” he reports. “Perhaps one more should do the trick.”

Gladio passes over another one, then glances over at Prompto. “What’re you looking at, kid?”

Prompto jumps at being addressed. He shoves his face in the crook of his arm, trying to wipe away the tears he hadn’t realized were falling. “He’s gonna be okay?” he asks in a wobbly voice, his words cracking down the middle.

Something flickers in Gladio’s expression, then it smooths out and softens. He gets up and pulls him into a loose headlock, ruffling his hair. Prompto can’t even bring himself to struggle. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “He’s gonna be okay.”

For some reason, that doesn’t make him feel much better.

* * *

Noctis wakes up comfortable, warm, and in very little pain, surprisingly enough. A weak morning light filters through the blinds of the caravan, lighting up the back area the bed is in.

He turns his head to the right, sees Ignis and Gladio on the floor wrapped up in their sleeping bags. Turning his head to the left, he sees Prompto curled up next to him, very carefully keeping his limbs tucked in close so not to touch him.

Noct sighs, staring back up at the stained ceiling. (Why are all the caravan ceilings stained?) He knew Prompto was going to blame himself for Noctis’ own reckless thoughts. But he couldn’t stand the idea of the gunner being shot because Noct wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough to have the stamina to make it through a fight.

He sits up carefully, picks his way through the maze his friends have left him to make it to the bathroom. The light is weak inside, flickering like the bulb is close to giving up, but it’s enough for him to see himself in the mirror.

They kept his shirt off. He traces the lines on his chin, over his neck, to his shoulder. His skin feels too hot still, his fingers cold. It hurts, just a little, even with the light pressure. There’s faint bruises on his skin, yellowed now with potions, but still tender.

He draws his finger along the discolored skin on his collarbone, where the chain of his necklace use to lay, a lump in his throat. It use to be his dad’s, a sort of formal attire, that he gave to Noctis when they returned from Tenebrae haunted. There was a time when he didn’t want to be away from his dad, and Regis complied with as much love as he could. After a particularly bad nightmare that stemmed from another day of PT and being in wheelchair, his dad had looped the chain over his head with a sad smile and made promises that Noctis now knows he never could’ve kept no matter how much he wanted to.

Did the chain break when he fell? Or did it break when the lightning reached him? Could he convince the guys to go back for it? It’s probably ruined beyond repair now, but it’d be worth the try.

At least. He glances down. At least he has his ring, right? He carefully slides it off his finger, wincing when it tugs against tender nerves, and holds it in the palm of his hand. One day, the Ring of the Lucii will replace the rings he changes out for every season. He’ll move the rings to his left hand instead, he supposes, but, for now, he wears these ones. His dad gave him three out of four, Prompto gave him his summer solstice one, a wooden one with carvings and beautiful stains. This one is metal, carved with Noctis’ linage number of CXIV and a delicate outline of a sylleblossom, a personal symbol of the autumn equinox.

His fingers are covered in soot now, faintly. Someone must’ve cleaned it off still on his hand instead of taking it off. He rubs it with his thumb, the indents of the carving rough on the pad of his finger. With a sigh, he slides it back on, hand going to his chest where the tag of his necklace normally sits.

Noctis presses his forehead against the cool mirror, gasping when the change of angle puts pressure on his chest. He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose and out through his mouth.

For a long moment, he stays there, waiting to hear movement outside of Ignis and Gladio waking up. Nothing happens. He reaches for his phone in the armory, checking the time when the soul crystals fade away. He frowns, eyebrows furrowing, when he reads the date. Huh, he sleep longer than he thought. It’s been a full day and a half since their skirmish. The guys are probably exhausted looking out for him.

This time, when he winces, it’s because of the stab of guilt in his chest. Gods, what has he done to these men?

Finally, the sounds of the stove clicking on and pan clanging quietly on one of the burners sounds out. Ignis knocks on the door and calls his name softly.

“I’m good,” he replies hoarsely. He clears his throat, swallows, then tries again. “I’m okay, Iggy. I just gotta pee.”

He can practically feel Ignis hesitate, but then the other man says a soft “all right” and shuffles away. Noctis does use the toilet before he slips out of the bathroom. Ignis is leaning against the counter, coffee mug in hand but he’s not drinking it, he’s staring out into the distance, eyes unfocused.

Prompto somehow migrated to the warm spot Noctis left behind, curling up around his pillow. Gladio’s gone, but Noctis can see him through the window, doing disgustingly enthusiastic squats.

Noctis touches Ignis’ elbow. His advisor startles, coffee sloshing out over his bare fingers. He takes the mug from him, putting it to the side on the countertop, and grabs Ignis’ hand in his.

“Noct,” Ignis says in warning.

He shakes his head and lets a little spark of magic travel from him to the slight, barely there burns on his long fingers. “I’m fine now,” he says. His voice still sounds a little raspy. “Potions and sleep fixed me right up. It’s good. I’m good,” he adds to Ignis’ disbelieving look.

Ignis switches them around so he’s cradling Noct’s damaged hand in his. “Can you curl your fingers?”

“I just did, when I healed you.”

He just gets a raised eyebrow and an unamused look for that. Noctis huffs out a laugh and obediently curls his fingers loosely, then tightly into a fist, ending with flattening them out as much as he can. He doesn’t shake, it doesn't strain his tendons or muscles. It hurts a little, but it’s in the back of his mind, faint and something he can ignore.

“And how’s your breathing?”

Noctis takes a deep, exaggerated breath pointedly. He can’t help the wince when he goes a little too far, something Ignis frowns at, but when he breathes exaggeratedly again, Ignis seems to be satisfied that he’s more than mostly healed.

“Good,” he says, relieved. But then he’s tapping Noctis’ temple sharply in reprimand. Noct reels back in shock. “What were you thinking? You know better than to be in the target zone! Prompto warned you, did he not?”

Noct bats his hand away, scowling. “He did. I know. Give me a break, I’m not that stupid. There was a MT. It was either Prompto got shot in the head or I got shocked a little bit.” It hadn’t been that hard of a decision to make.

Ignis’ eyes widen a little bit before his expression softens to understanding. “He feels guilty.”

“I figured he would. It wasn’t my intention.” Noctis glances back at Prompto still sleeping. “I’ll talk to him.”

“See that you do,” he hums. He takes his coffee back, picks up a second mug he hadn’t noticed. “Sooner than later,” he advises. He walks out of the caravan to hand Gladio the extra drink, clicking the door shut behind him.

“And there we go,” Noctis mutters under his breath with a smile. “Abandoned without remorse.”

He climbs onto the bed in space Prompto left behind, sitting cross legged facing his back. His friend’s back moves with steady breaths, covered by a dark red tank top. Noct places a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Prommm,” he says, keeping his tone low. Prompto grumbles at him. “Promptooo. Wake up. C’mon.”

Prompto wakes in a panic, taking a backward swing at him. Noctis scrambles back, but doesn’t quite make it. The force that hits him in the chest is light, just not light enough. It feels like a punch. He gasps, all the air whooshing from his lungs, and he doubles over as the pain radiates like a flower blooming.

“Shit! Shit. Shit.” Prompto pats his shoulders, his hair, his back. “Shit, Noct. I’m sorry. Are you okay? Okay, stupid question. Can you hear me?”

Noct nods, groaning, pressing his hands against his chest. “I hear ya,” he forces out. “Not your fault.”

“Not my fault!” he says almost hysterically. “I just hit you in the chest! Your broken-only-two-days-ago chest. Oh Gods, you’re awake too. Are you—.”

Noctis breathes through his nose, closes his eyes for just a second to steel himself, then grabs Prompto’s shoulders. The contact makes him cut off mid-word, teeth clicking shut. Prompto stares at him with wide, watery eyes that are swollen and rimmed red.

“I’m fine,” Noct says as firmly as he can. “I promise.” Prompto nods slightly. “And it wasn’t your fault.” His expression crumbles and he tries to pull away, but Noctis just holds on tighter. “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”

“I thought it was a thundara,” Prompto says brokenly. “Not only did I not see you. But I threw a thundaga instead.

“We barely got through magic training,” Noctis counters. “I either should’ve taught you better or I should’ve never put you in that position in the first place. I could’ve thrown the flask.”

“I had the better spot.”

“And you got all the MTs,” Noct says proudly. “Including the riflemen. It was a great shot.” He doesn’t need to tell Prom about the rifleman taking aim at him. He doesn’t need to know why Noct had been in the way. It wouldn’t be fair to him, it would just pile on the guilt.

Prompto’s cheeks blush pink and he averts his eyes, biting his lip. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Noctis pulls him into a tight hug, holding in the hiss at the pressure. “I forgive you,” he says. Prom’s arms come to wrap around his back, his fingers pressing hard against his skin. “There’s nothing to forgive, but I forgive you anyway.”

Prom sobs a laugh against his shoulder. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

They stay like that for a long, glorious moment. But then Prompto is pulling away and Noctis is letting him go reluctantly. They wipe their tears, grinning at each other in embarrassment, giggling when the silence gets a little awkward. Prom leans over the side, digging into the bedside table’s drawer to pull out a cloth drawstring bag.

“This is yours.”

Noctis lets hit drop into his cupped hands. He shakes whatever it is into his palm, sucking in a breath when he catches sight of his dad’s royal crest. It shines gold and black, every detail of the skull perfect and unmarked. He glances up at Prompto with shining eyes.

Prom rubs the back of his neck. “It conducted a lot of the spell, got pretty damaged. But I managed to get it clean,” he says brightly.

And replaced the chain. It’s shorter now, to rest just under the hollow of his throat when he puts it on. It hurts where it sits, the fine chain just a little too rough on his damaged skin, but he leaves it there.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “You saved our lives with the flask.” Prompto scoffs. “You did,” Noctis insists. “Without that flask, the MTs would’ve gone after Gladio and Ignis. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer without going into stasis.” Prompto’s turning redder now, it’s adorable. “And you…” He clutches the necklace in his hand, a lump in his throat. “I was so worried it fell off near the cliffs.”

“I’m glad it didn’t,” Prom says softly.

Prompto hugs him again, urging him to lay side-by-side on the bed with him. They’re practically nose to nose, close enough all Noctis feels is his warmth.

Ignis and Gladio come back into the caravan to them curled around each other, asleep in the patch of light the window is letting through. Gladio shakes his head, laughing at the two of them piled on each other like kittens, and tugs the sheets to cover Noctis’ bare top half. Ignis pours them both another cup of coffee, and they both drink, watching the two younger members of their group sleep away the bad memories.


End file.
